


who sail away (and then come back)

by Damkianna



Category: Babylon 5: Legend of the Rangers
Genre: Backstory, Belonging, Gen, Insecurity, Pre-Canon, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-02-28 22:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2749805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One time each member of the <i>Liandra</i>'s crew wasn't sure they were in the right place—and one time they all knew they were. (Covers several years pre-canon through to a point near the end of the movie; some violence, not graphic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	who sail away (and then come back)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Azar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azar/gifts).



> I was so delighted to see a Legend of the Rangers letter that I knew I had to write something for it. You asked for backstory and Ranger training, and I totally meant to stick to that except I love everyone on this crew so much and this kind of exploded on me. I also didn't quite manage David/Sarah/Dulann so much as David&Sarah&Dulann, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! ♥
> 
> Other notes: I tried to use canonical information where available, but I also ended up making some things up; the endnotes go through the spots where those things intersected more thoroughly, for anyone who is interested. Scenes progress in at least mostly chronological order, with the gaps between them wider in some places than in others. Near the end, this fic catches up to the movie and transitions into being missing scenes—hopefully it's not too hard to tell where they fit, but if there's any confusion I'm happy to clarify!
> 
> Title drawn from the poem [Home Are the Sailors](http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2014/08/24), by Samuel Hazo.

  


* * *

  


_I live to serve; I serve to live._

  


* * *

  


Sarah had joined the Rangers for all the wrong reasons. Because she'd been dared to—that's what she told everyone who asked. (She didn't tell them about the look in Colum's eyes when he'd said it, the nasty sharp certainty that she wouldn't— _couldn't_ , even if she tried. She didn't think about Colum at all if she could help it.) Because she was angry; because she was tired. Because if she hadn't gotten the hell off of Mars, away from the smoke and the grief and the rage, she would have drowned in it. She wanted to go back, someday—someday when she'd be able to look at Dome One and remember how much she loved it instead of how much her throat had hurt from screaming, how loud the long thin wail of bombs falling had been.

After it had all been over, ISN had been broadcasting hours of talking heads going on and on about the recovery, about whether it was even possible—and a good third of them had been calmly certain that it wasn't. Too much anger, they'd said knowingly, nodding to each other in some clean bright studio; too much bitterness, too much violence. Even people who hadn't been part of the resistance at all had learned how to be at war too well, and now that it was over, they couldn't remember how to be anything else. Mars was simply never going to be able to contribute to the Interstellar Alliance on anything like an even footing with Earth. Such trauma, such tragedy, so many lost causes—and now: the weather.

For all the disdain he'd leveled at them, all the times he'd said they didn't know a damn thing about Mars or anyone on it, Colum—Colum had listened to them, had walled himself in with his resentment so firmly Sarah had looked at his familiar narrow face and found herself wondering where her best friend had gone. And Sarah—

Sarah had gone the other way, out instead of in. Sarah had been angry, too, but she hadn't been willing to let that be the end of it, to tip that particular coffin's lid shut and bury herself in it. Sarah had joined the Rangers, and now she was standing on Minbar in an itchy robe trying to hit a bone-headed alien with a stick.

"Again," said Sech Direen, frowning.

Sarah took a deep breath and kept her eyes on Ruval—Ruval of Yiro, of the Sixth Fane of some goddamn clan Sarah couldn't remember, Ruval who was ten generations' worth of Minbari warrior caste and had looked at Sarah like he was _sorry_ for her when the only thing she'd had to tack on to her name had been "Cantrell, of Mars". It _meant_ something, she knew it did—the other three Humans in this class, at least, had gotten more out of Sarah's "Mars" than they had out of Ruval and his Sixth Fane. But Ruval didn't know that, or at least didn't care. He'd heard nothing but _alone_ , _rootless_ , somebody who couldn't claim any family or line or clan except a ball of dirt they'd left behind, and she could still see the shadow of the thought across his face: _lost cause_ , calmly certain.

Sarah swung the stick at him.

"No, no, no," said Sech Direen, shaking his head and stepping between them. Ruval had dodged and then begun a swing of his own; Sech Direen thumbed the control on his pike-thingy, and Ruval's stave smacked into its expanding length instead of hitting Sarah in the side of the knee. "Enough—you are not ready for a match, even a practice match. Return to drills. Ann'atar through risteir, I think, alone and then partnered. We will try again tomorrow."

"Yes, Sech," Sarah said, and bit her own cheek firmly to keep from looking at Ruval's face.

Couldn't keep from hearing him, though. "And I, Sech Direen?"

"I did not specify that my instructions were intended solely for Sarah," Sech Direen said coolly. "How curious that you should have interpreted them so."

Sarah should have wanted to laugh—she could feel the impulse, flickering feebly, but it seemed far away somehow, and she turned away instead of staying to watch Ruval protest. Back across the room to her section of mat, where she'd been doing drills before until Sech Direen had called her name. She planted her feet and raised her stave, taking the starting position for the ann'atar sequence; and then she didn't move and didn't move and didn't move, staring at the back of her hand, the stave, until it didn't even look like anything, just a jumble of lines in front of her eyes. What the hell was she even doing here?

"Sarah Cantrell of Mars," someone said.

Sarah blinked and lowered her arm—it was aching. How long had she been holding it out like that, anyway?

One of the other Minbari—not Sech Direen, not Ruval, but another trainee—was standing at the edge of Sarah's section of mat, looking at her with the blandly inquiring expression all Minbari apparently wore by default.

Maybe they'd throw her out for this, Sarah thought. "What the hell am I doing here?" she said, and was vaguely surprised that it came out as evenly as it did.

The Minbari didn't even twitch at her phrasing. Maybe he didn't know what it meant. (Or maybe Sarah had been right to suspect the Minbari had some really vicious swears of their own and just never translated them literally.) "If you do not know," he said, "what makes you think I do?"

Sarah blinked. She'd been expecting something a little more judgmental. The Rangers were dedicated to saving the universe, the best of the best—Sarah was nothing but a blemish on that, standing here like a lost little kid. "Isn't that—bad? That I don't know?"

The Minbari narrowed his eyes and gazed at her thoughtfully. "I suppose that depends. Do you have any conjectures as to what the hell you are doing, Sarah Cantrell of Mars?"

It was funny, hearing him repeat her phrasing so exactly, but Sarah couldn't quite smile. She looked down at the mat. "Killing time," she said. "Making a mistake. Waiting—" _to die_ , except that wasn't quite right. She could have done that on Mars. Sarah dragged her gaze back up to meet the Minbari's, even though she really didn't want to. "Running away."

"Running away," he repeated slowly; and this was it, Sarah thought, because there were no cowards in the Rangers, but the Minbari didn't spit on her or tell her she wasn't worthy of her itchy robe. "Running away—well. I can't say I think much of your strategy."

Sarah stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"Running away," the Minbari said, "is a maneuver that I am given to understand is typically used to _avoid_ danger. Joining the Anla'shok seems likely to guarantee it. If you are running away, Sarah Cantrell of Mars, you are doing it in entirely the wrong direction."

His tone was conversational, calm, detached; but Sarah could see that he wanted to smile—was smiling, even, in a dignified understated Minbari kind of way, with the barest little curve of his mouth, the tiniest crinkle at the outer corners of his eyes.

That impulse to laugh flared back to life, and this time Sarah gave in—and it felt weirdly good, her shoulders easing afterward when she hadn't even really realized they'd been tense. She shook her head at herself, at the mat, and then glanced back up at the Minbari. "I don't know where I should be," she said, more quietly. "I don't know _what_ I should be."

"Does that matter?" said the Minbari. "You are here now; until you have decided, you may as well continue to be here. Unless there is something else you would rather be doing?"

His voice had turned light—deliberately light, and Sarah took a deep breath and felt steadier. "Besides hitting people with sticks?" she said. "Nah."

Another eye crinkle—Sarah hadn't thought Minbari _had_ senses of humor, but this one totally did. He looked at her a moment longer, and then the eye crinkle went away again, and without it his face was suddenly utterly serious. "You are afraid," he said, low, and something about his matter-of-fact tone kept Sarah from wanting to protest. It wasn't an insult, not when he said it. "You are angry; you are uncertain. You think this means you cannot be a Ranger? 'We walk in the dark places no others will enter'—that is what the creed says. It does not say those places are always outside of us."

Sarah turned that thought over a couple of times and decided she liked it. Maybe she'd still get kicked out—maybe that was okay. Maybe that didn't mean she'd failed, or couldn't be her own kind of Ranger anyway. She just wanted to find something to be other than angry, other than messed-up and stewing in it, and being a Ranger was one way but maybe not the only way. "Deep," Sarah said aloud, and the eye crinkle came back.

"I have observed that Humans are often impressed by even the feeblest efforts at philosophy," the Minbari said, tone bland again.

"I've observed that Minbari are fun to hit with sticks," Sarah said, raising her stave—to take first position for ann'atar again, of course, and she made sure her face said so when the Minbari took a wary step back.

"Indeed," the Minbari said.

"What's your name, anyway?"

The Minbari brought his hands together and bowed. "Dulann of Minbar," he said—no fane, no clan, no family line; just a ball of dirt, Sarah thought.

"Well," Sarah said, moving carefully into second position with a sweep of her stave. "Nice to meet you, Dulann. Go get your stick—we can hit each other with them."

"An inspired idea," said Dulann gravely, and went.

  


* * *

  


_I come to the stars by a difficult road._

  


* * *

  


Tafeek had wished to become an anla'shok for at least eighty cycles. Being told the old tales was among his earliest memories, and he could recall precisely the moment when it had occurred to him, lying on his bed as a child, that to be part of such a tale himself would be an excellent thing.

For seventy-seven of those cycles, it had been entirely impossible, a wholly idle dream. Tafeek was religious-caste, a son of the Fifth Fane of Chudomo; to imagine a different life was not the same thing as to be called, and a calling was the only way Tafeek could ever become an anla'shok. To quarrel with destiny was a grave error of pride. Tafeek did not quarrel: he prayed, and he studied, and he tended the minor diplomatic matters assigned to his care. And sometimes, when it was dark and quiet and he was alone, he wished.

In one cycle—less—it became possible. Tafeek made no move to reach for it. Some wishes were best ungranted; and perhaps it could be admitted that he feared to reach, lest, like Bhiral reaching for the fruit of the Tree of Light, he should find that for which he reached moving out of his grasp anew. He looked out every evening across the skyline of Yedor, saw the gleaming facets of the ancient temple of the Anla'shok and knew that he could have walked its halls, that in the multiplicity of all possible worlds there was now at least one in which Tafeek of the Fifth Fane of Chudomo did so and was glad. Surely that should have been enough.

Within two cycles, it became clear that it was not—that Tafeek's loud demanding heart could not be silenced by any measure of wisdom he was able to bring to bear against it. So he left his prayers and his diplomatic papers and he walked up to the temple of the Anla'shok, and the doors were not barred against him but opened for him.

Tafeek had wished to become an anla'shok for at least eighty cycles. Like many other wishes well-loved and dearly-held, this wish did not survive contact with reality.

  


*

  


He had known that he would need to attain facility with, if not mastery of, the denn'bok; this was the foundation required of all who would become anla'shok, no matter their eventual specialization. He had not known it would be so difficult. He found himself clumsy, slow, and there were those among his class who found him so also, and took care to let him know it. The practice pikes chafed his hands, relentless, 'til they cracked and bled—he felt himself a fool, a scribe pretending at soldiery, going to the medbay for such small hurts when he meant to wage war against the dark between the stars. His arms ached, his legs. Diplomatic papers could be wrestled with, in a certain sense, but had never left bruises. He was often tired, often in pain. Half the lessons required of him were dependent upon the complex vagaries of warrior-caste philosophy—or at least they seemed complex to Tafeek, built upon foundations that were wholly strange to him, nothing he had ever studied in the temples of his youth. It did not help that many of the combat courses were taught in Vik—which Tafeek could read well enough, but had never been called upon to listen to for days at a time.

He was tested; he did not pass. Another cycle of training at the very least, the sechs said, frowning, and Tafeek bowed and agreed.

He tried harder.

He grew stronger, faster. No one would ever mistake Tafeek of the Fifth Fane of Chudomo for warrior-caste, but he slept deeply, easily; his palms no longer blistered; he sparred for hours and was not hobbled by soreness the day after. He studied warrior-caste texts until late into the night, Adeela and Yoon rising high and spilling pale light across his table. He won practice matches as often as he lost, and then more often. At last, he thought, he was ready.

He was tested; he did not pass.

Others struggled, Tafeek began to see. He was not the only one who could not seem to progress. His sisters and brothers in the clan of Chudomo, too, remained in training more often than not, and their cousins in Elleya, in Miralo, likewise. There was one quiet woman in the back of all Tafeek's lessons—she had been there since before Tafeek, demonstrating denn'bok sequences with a gokk's grace, answering every question put to her in clear careful Vik. He asked for her name one day and she told him Risvin, told him she belonged to the First Fane of Lir; _worker-caste?_ he managed not to blurt, though his wide eyes must surely have said it for him. And surely that was also what the sechs had thought when they heard her give her clan name, he mused afterward. Surely she, like Tafeek, had not been trained in the use of weapons all her life, had never been taught how to forge herself into a blade; surely the sechs—nine out of ten of them warrior-caste, Tafeek could not help thinking—were simply conscious of this deficiency.

Surely, surely, it was only right that she—and he—required additional training.

Surely that was all.

But perhaps—

(Perhaps it was worse than that. Perhaps they were simply incapable of meeting the necessary standards. There had been a son of the house of Daritz in training the year before Tafeek had joined— _he_ had passed, and was now an anla'shok. Perhaps it was Tafeek himself who lacked what was needed, who could not overcome the limits defined by the caste of his birth and calling.)

Perhaps this prideful quarrel Tafeek had picked was already lost.

  


* * *

  


They were told well in advance of the Entil'zha's coming—told that she would stay at the temple, told which classes she would be likeliest to sit in on and who would therefore attend them. Tafeek wished only to be elsewhere. To be returned, even, to his diplomatic office; to look out across Yedor at the gleaming facets of the temple and not know what it was to be inside. For the best, perhaps, if he were never to become an anla'shok after all, with a heart so fickle!

He learned the Entil'zha's schedule that he might best avoid her path. (She was religious-caste, and had become the _Entil'zha_ —she, beyond all others, would look upon his inadequacies with the gravest disappointment.) So he knew, beyond a doubt, that she should not have been in the western temple garden after supper; and yet she was.

They looked at each other with startlement, Tafeek and the Entil'zha, and then Tafeek recovered his mind enough to bow, to say, "All apologies, Entil'zha, I had no intention of intruding—"

The Entil'zha moved, though Tafeek's head was lowered and he could not see her do it; he could still hear the rustle of her robe. "Anla'shok—"

"I am no anla'shok," Tafeek said. And it was true—in more ways than one, he thought, and then wished he had not thought it.

"You are in training," the Entil'zha surmised, and her voice was warm when she asked, "And how long have you been in training, anla'shok-who-will-be?"

Tafeek closed his eyes. He had hoped to be able to withdraw before she could ask—selfishly. Little wonder, then, that his hope had gone unfulfilled. "Nearly three cycles, Entil'zha," he said, as steadily as he was able.

"Three—" The Entil'zha sounded startled; mortification crawled hotly up Tafeek's face. There was silence for a moment, and when the Entil'zha spoke again, she sounded—knowing. "Tell me your name, anla'shok-who-will-be."

"Tafeek," Tafeek said. "Tafeek of the Fifth Fane of Chudomo."

"Ah," said the Entil'zha, almost more a sigh than a word. "I see."

"Entil'zha," Tafeek began, thinking—what? He might apologize? Idiocy—

"I had hoped it would not still be so hard for them," the Entil'zha murmured. "But it is a self-perpetuating cycle—the flexible ones are the ones who are willing to go to the newest training camps, to other worlds. And so they go; and they leave here, in our greatest temple—what? Dusty old alyt with dusty old minds!" Tafeek had lifted his head out of the bow, uncertain, and he saw the Entil'zha make a face at the temple wall in the distance.

"Entil'zha?"

The Entil'zha seemed to remember herself: she looked at him and smiled, kind, and gestured to him. "Come here and talk to me a little, Tafeek."

Tafeek stared.

"You live for the One, you die for the One," the Entil'zha said, "you can _talk_ to the One," and she tapped an open hand against the space of bench beside her.

"I can, Entil'zha," Tafeek said slowly, "but to sit—"

"Too much to ask?" the Entil'zha said, laughing. "All right, then. Stand, if you like. I am sure you have noticed that there are not so very many anla'shok from the clan of Chudomo, Tafeek of the Fifth Fane; but I know well that Chudomo is a brave house, a _good_ house. We will all be richer for it, when you have completed your training."

 _When_. With such assurance! "When," Tafeek repeated softly, and hoped it did not sound as pleading to the Entil'zha's ears as it did to his.

If it did, she did not think ill of him for it, or at least did not show that she did. "Your road is difficult, Tafeek," said the Entil'zha, gentle. "But that does not mean it is the _wrong_ road." She looked at him kindly for a moment, and then smiled at him again. "Of course that also does not mean it is the right road; and if you find that your feet lead you elsewhere, there is no shame in that. But what is difficult is often worth trying, even if success should elude us in the end. To _attempt_ —that is the great purpose that moves us all through the universe."

"But—we all must have our place—"

"Oh, and many of us do—and then sometimes we do not, or our place changes; or _we_ change, and no longer fit into the place that was once ours. Perhaps there is such a place among the ranks of the Anla'shok that may become yours, in time. Or perhaps you will complete your training but find your heart drawn in another direction—" There was a sound before Tafeek could reply, somewhere behind him, and it made the Entil'zha sigh. "They are about to find me, and I will have to go back inside and make up for whatever I have missed," said the Entil'zha. "Tell me, Tafeek, quickly: is there anything I can do for you while I am here?"

Tafeek blinked at her, staggered at the thought of asking a favor of the Entil'zha; but she had offered, he thought, and did that not then make it ruder not to ask?—and then suddenly he knew what to ask for. "One thing, Entil'zha," he said.

  


*

  


When there came a sound at the door to the sparring room, Tafeek did not look up; he kept his eyes on his practice pike and swung it, slow and measured, transitioning to the final form of ya'zhir.

"Entil'zha!" cried one of the sechs—Sech Kheir, Tafeek thought. "You were not expected—"

"I find that is often the best time to arrive," said the Entil'zha.

"But—" and that was not one of the sechs teaching Tafeek's class, that was the shai alyt who had been assigned to escort the Entil'zha.

"Enough," the Entil'zha said to her calmly. "I wish to observe this class, unless there is some reason why that should not be allowed."

"No, Entil'zha," the shai alyt conceded, stiff.

"Very well, then," said the Entil'zha.

Tafeek had told her where she might look, if she were so inclined, and she had remembered—he knew it by the way she moved, walking slowly further and further back through the room as they all continued their drills around her. When at last the Entil'zha paused, exactly where he had requested she might, Tafeek had to bite his lip to keep from grinning.

"What is your name?"

Tafeek permitted himself at last to turn his head.

"Risvin—Risvin of the First Fane of Lir, Entil'zha," and Tafeek watched Risvin tuck her practice pike beneath her arm and bow.

"You have excellent form, Risvin of the First Fane of Lir," said the Entil'zha, and smiled.

  


* * *

  


_I'm just really glad to be here._

  


* * *

  


One of the rough parts of being navigation, Kit thought, was that they needed you for the mission to be accomplished but you didn't get to actually _do_ it. Half the time his work was already done by the time the mission itself was underway—they couldn't do without him for the prep stuff, putting together the geophysical scans into a usable map and figuring out the best route to come at the raiders' base from once they were on the ground. But he was almost never on the actual strike team when he did navigation work.

Not that it hadn't been fun, obviously. Myrdania IV had some pretty fascinating terrain features, a lot of really tall narrow arêtes snaking around; it had been tough to find a halfway-decent landing zone, let alone a reasonable path for the strike team to take that would give them sufficient cover. Myrdania IV was wet, too, which meant it was better not to use paper—the Minbari were actually sort of fond of paper for some missions, it was so easy to destroy without leaving any useful traces, but Kit hated it. The digital pads he'd been given instead (one to use and a spare for backup) were cheap, with puny amounts of storage space and no networking capacity to speak of; but they didn't wrinkle, they didn't tear, and he could make adjustments as many times as he wanted without having to print new copies of everything.

But the only thing left to do once he'd finished his part was—wait. Which was why he'd developed the habit of making up navigation exercises for himself, puzzles to pass the time: interstellar, hyperspace, ground, whatever he was in the mood for. As long as he didn't break the main pad while he was working, he could use the spare for whatever he wanted. If only he could remember where he'd put it—

He had one ear on Nykhal in the bridge as he searched through his things; it was a small team and they'd been given a matching ship, you could practically shout from one end to the other. He heard the click of a channel opening, Nykhal saying briskly, "Status report." Ladroon and the strike team were taking an incredibly long time; and there were Minbari who'd embraced the concept of small talk, but Nykhal wasn't one of them. Kit needed _something_ to do while they were waiting—and he'd had the backup pad out to doodle on just this morning, where the hell was it? He'd come up with a fun one, a downright implausible watershed with a scattering of sinkholes, nothing like Myrdania IV's glacier-carved bedrock—

There was a burst of static, sudden and loud, and then Ladroon's voice came crackling back over the communicator, partway through a word. "—ese directions are all _wrong_ —"

"Oops," Kit said, gazing down at the pad he'd finally dug up: it was displaying the wrong file, not his exercise. Not his exercise at all—because the screen was covered in the graceful curves of Myrdania IV's arêtes.

Well. That explained why the strike team was taking so long.

  


*

  


So that was the end of Kit on Nykhal's team. Whether it was for that alone or not, he was assigned to the communications/linguistics spot on his next team—maybe Nykhal had put a note in his file. _Do NOT put this foolish Human in charge of your maps._ The idea made Kit smile, even though he wasn't quite up to laughing yet. It had been stupid, but Ladroon's mistake as much as Kit's—Kit had left the wrong pad out in the open, but Ladroon was the one who'd taken it without bothering to check in with Kit about it. And Nykhal hadn't liked Kit anyway. Next time would be better.

  


* * *

  


The stone tablet next to the ancient stele on Jjuuruuna Prime had been broken, a big chunk of the corner and maybe a quarter of the ideograms gone. Dameer had told Kit to translate it anyway, and Kit had—and he'd _said_ they couldn't be sure what was missing, Jjuuriit ideograms changed each other's meaning in complicated ways when they were combined, so there wasn't any good reason for him to feel guilty. The part he'd had to work with had talked about enlightenment, journeying without moving, the vast endless universe expanded and reduced at the same time. A transportation device, maybe, or at least that was what Dameer had decided; and Terat had touched the stele and was instantly encased in rock up to her elbows, hallucinating something that was making her alternately scream and weep.

But it wasn't Kit's fault, it _wasn't_.

  


*

  


Dameer yelled at him for a minute, though Kit couldn't really hear what he was saying over Terat's sobbing; Kit kept his head down and didn't argue. When Dameer was done, he strode righteously off back to the ship to comm for help, and Kit got a grip and went over to figure out whether he could maybe get Terat to drink some water. She already sounded like her throat had to hurt.

Because he was right there, he had to try: but touching the stele himself didn't do anything, didn't make it let go of Terat. She couldn't seem to hold still long enough to drink. He was afraid to try anything more complicated in case it made it worse—in case he spilled the water, in case the wet of it made her think she was drowning, bleeding. He stood there and talked to her instead, and he thought maybe she could almost hear it sometimes, maybe it helped. Or maybe he was just kidding himself.

It felt like about a day but was probably more like an hour before the rock let go of Terat—Dameer wasn't even back yet when it all suddenly slid back into the dais, and Terat clutched at the stele with both hands and said hoarsely, "What—"

"Terat," Kit said, and carefully didn't grab her even though she looked wobbly, because a rock had just grabbed her for an hour and she probably wouldn't appreciate it. "Terat, are you okay? Do you know where you are?"

"Jjuuruuna Prime," Terat said promptly, and then, "My _mind_ hurts," and then she threw up.

  


*

  


Dameer came back with Midann and Neral, who'd been exploring other parts of the temple looking for the beacon that they'd followed here; together they all got Terat back to the ship, and then Dameer turned to Kit and said, "You _idiot_."

"Dameer—" Midann said.

"You careless _fool_ —"

Somebody's denn'bok extended with a _shoonk_ , between Dameer and Kit; it took a second for Kit to realize that it was Terat's, hefted out one-armed from her spot on the medbay bed. "I touched the stele," she said. "Please do me the courtesy of ascribing my own decisions to me and not to others."

It was nice of her, Kit thought, and nice wasn't a word he'd applied to a whole lot of warrior-caste Minbari. But he was pretty sure he knew how this was going to go.

"I will not be forced to take responsibility for this Human's errors," Dameer insisted, and yup, there it was. What kind of note would Dameer put in Kit's file? _Do NOT trust any translations this Human gives you._ Kit was going to have to pick a few new backup specializations, at this rate.

"Then I will not force you to take responsibility for mine, either," Terat said. "You are no true shok-na, Dameer, and so I owe you no respect, and am free to say: get out of here so I may rest."

"It would be medically advisable for you _all_ to do so," Midann interjected, very calm, before Dameer could reply; and Kit got the hell out before he could mess anything else up.

  


*

  


A couple people asked him what had happened, when he got back to the temple on Minbar and had to go through the reassignment process all over again. To the humans, he said, "Irreconcilable differences," and winked; that made them laugh, and them laughing made Kit smile, and for a minute or two it all managed to seem like a pretty good joke. To the Minbari, he said, "A misunderstanding," and let himself look sorry, unhappy; and they bowed their heads and didn't ask any more questions, because Minbari mostly knew when to leave well enough alone.

He found out a day before his assignment came through that Terat had lodged an actual complaint against Dameer—using formal procedures, which for warrior-caste Minbari probably meant she'd called him a whiny coward in public and then challenged him to single combat. By the smug look on her face the next day, when she stopped Kit in the hallway to congratulate him on his new posting, she hadn't lost; and Kit bowed to her and felt—not great, but okay. Terat really wasn't holding it against him, so maybe it didn't matter if Dameer did. Mistakes happened. He just had to keep trying.

  


* * *

  


The third time, Kit didn't even know anything was wrong until things started exploding next to him.

It had been supposed to be a quieter mission, simpler—not _easy_ , but no combat, no following strange beacon signals to partially-surveyed dead worlds. Humanitarian, except not to help Humans: it had been a bad year on Pili-Pilaya, flooding and mudslides on an archipelagic world that didn't have a whole lot of land to spare. There were three sentient species, one land-based and two living in the ocean; the water-dwellers had been doing their best to help, sharing their seaweed harvests and that sort of thing, but the mismatch between the resources they could provide and the resources the land-dwellers needed most had become increasingly obvious. It was a quiet little world, no particularly close allies, no colonies; they hadn't known who to ask for help except the ISA, and the ISA had answered with Rangers.

Kit was communications—necessary, considering they were trying to coordinate relief operations across a chain of about a hundred and seventy islands, but not too complicated, nothing he could really mess up. Quiet. Simple.

And then things started exploding.

  


*

  


Kit learned later that it was raiders from the next system over—pirates who'd been working out of a big fat belt of asteroids and wanted to upgrade to a planet, thinking a troubled world would make easy pickings.

In the moment, he had absolutely no idea what was happening except that there had been a familiar sort of launching noise, a weapons-like _chunk_ , and he'd raised his comm to ask whether somebody had decided a controlled detonation was the answer to the largest island's drainage issues and then _boom_.

Light, heat— _so much_ light, _so much_ heat, and an impact against Kit's eardrums that only belatedly registered as a sound. Kit dropped the communicator and threw his arms over his face—or started to, or maybe he only felt the impulse, knew he was about to do it, before the shockwave picked him up and hurled him sideways.

When he opened his eyes again, it couldn't have been more than a few minutes later: there were people running past him, the green-skinned calves of a whole lot of upset Pilayans, and Kit watched them go by—funny angle, the ground a vertical line—which, hey, the ground was still there, which hadn't felt true for a minute or two. The ground was there and he'd hit it, which was maybe where the endless throbbing pain in his arm was coming from, and everything felt kind of weird and far away. Possibly because there was something wrong with his ears, something wet trickling out of them and all the sounds around him strange and muffled.

Somebody was touching him—a Pilayan, a girl, shaking him and saying something he couldn't hear, and behind her in the sky there was something glowing, leaving a streaking trail, coming closer. It was pretty, Kit thought, and really fast; and then abruptly he knew what it was and it wasn't pretty anymore, and he grabbed the girl with the arm that still felt okay and pulled her down and covered her, a second before the ground shook.

He felt heat against his back, two small chunks of something hitting him and then one thing that was a little bigger, but nothing impaled him and nothing hit the kid. When the heat had faded away she yelled something else Kit couldn't hear, and when she saw his blank incomprehension she shoved at him and stood up, hauled him up too—Pili-Pilaya had a third of an Earth-gravity or so over Earth, over Minbar, and the older Pilayan kids had proven the other week that they could bench-press Kit if they tried. She made a face at Kit's messed-up arm, but Kit didn't look to see why; he already knew there was something wrong with it, and seeing exactly what it was would only make him want to hurl.

The kid was trying to shove Kit in the direction everybody else was going—into the water, probably, because the Pil and the Pila—the water-dwellers—would be able to keep them alive until whoever it was quit bombing the islands to death. But the comms, Kit thought hazily, the comms were the other way; somebody had to say something, to warn all the other islands, to call the Ranger base three systems away for backup. He stumbled toward the comm tent and the girl grabbed at him, shoved him again—he wanted to explain it to her, but it was hard when he couldn't even hear himself properly, his voice vibrating up through his skull instead of coming in through his ears.

He remembered her face, the way she'd frowned at him furiously, the scrape on her bare green scalp bleeding pale yellow. And then—another explosion? Some kind of impact, shaking up through his feet, his knees—smoke?

That was about where his memories stopped.

  


*

  


He woke up in a medbay, in the middle of the night. Not on Pili-Pilaya—Pili-Pilaya had a thin hazy set of rings that gleamed all night, four tiny moons, but the sky Kit could see out the nearest window was dark as pitch, nothing but the pinpoints of stars.

He knew he should be thinking about the girl, knew he needed to ask somebody in the morning whether she was okay; and while he was at it he could ask what had happened to everybody else, whether Pili-Pilaya's beautiful black-sand beaches were still on fire. But lying there alone in the dark with the weight of a temp-cast on his arm, some kind of goo in his ears, gauze taped across his face—all he could think was: _three times_. Three times. Three times made a pattern, wasn't that the saying? Three missions tripped up or screwed up or blown up, worse each time; the third time hadn't been him, not even Dameer would have thought so, but he'd still failed, because if he couldn't remember whether he'd made it to the comm, he probably hadn't.

He closed his eyes. Maybe he was just—cursed. Was it selfish, to tell himself he could try again? He _wanted_ to be a Ranger, to be useful, to help people; he wanted it more than anything, but he just couldn't seem to get it right.

He'd need time to heal up. Maybe—maybe he'd wait. Find the right mission. To a cursed planet, or with a cursed captain, or on a cursed ship, as cursed as Kit was; maybe they could cancel each other out. Maybe if it all went wrong again, it at least might not be because of Kit.

  


* * *

  


_My heart speaks quietly and infrequently._

  


* * *

  


Firell did not complete the last cycle of her healer's training alone. Some healers did—healing was traditionally considered an extremely personal process, after all, and many healers were still trained in the old manner, one master healer guiding one student through many, many cycles until at last the student's work was deemed proficient.

But some healers these days were not. Firell had been trained in something of a class, with four others learning alongside her; two masters oversaw them all and conferred together on their progress. (Sometimes they disagreed—which some might have considered an embarrassment, but Firell found it fascinating. Both were wise and learned, and yet still they could struggle to find consensus. Surely there was a lesson there that was worth any awkwardness the learning of it might provoke.)

Healers dedicated themselves to the service of others; Firell knew this. She would complete her training and then go wherever she was asked to go, and heal whatever hurts she found there. That was how it worked.

She was not expecting to be given a choice.

  


*

  


The day came at last when they all had been pronounced sufficiently skilled, and it went as Firell had imagined it might. They bowed to their masters and were bowed to in their turn, as an acknowledgment of their progress from student to—colleague, at least, though perhaps not equal just yet. The students—former students—had arranged together for a place to gather later and exchange gifts, in the traditional manner expected of those who had labored as a group for a time: as thanks for all the less tangible gifts they had already been given by one another as they worked and studied and learned together.

And then, startlingly, Healer Indell bid them all sit, and said, "Now we would like to know where it is you would like best to spend the first portion of your service."

Firell blinked.

"The Gray Council has offered us a list of those locations currently in need of healers," Healer Indell explained serenely, "as they have always done. But they have coordinated in this with the Interstellar Alliance, which we all now serve as we once served Minbar alone. The Alliance has requested that healers not be sent to distant worlds, or to combat-heavy posts, unless they have chosen to go; and the Gray Council has agreed."

She had a data crystal with the list, and had inserted it into her terminal so that she might read; Firell barely listened. A _choice_. There had been such comfort, to Firell, in the idea that her service might be demanded, expected, that she might go where she was told—Minbari were so often instructed to heed the guidance of their souls, but Firell had felt herself called only once in her life; so often at great moments of decision she had found her soul quiet. To be guided by others, by the simple and quantitative need for her aid, had seemed like it would be a blessing rather than a curse.

"Very well," Healer Indell was saying, somewhere seemingly far away, and then suddenly she was looking at Firell—Firell, and Dukhenn next to her, who were the only two who had not yet spoken up to choose a posting. "And you, Dukhenn? Firell?"

"I have no request to make," said Dukhenn calmly, bowing his head. "I will go wherever the need is great, without complaint or distress."

"As you say," Healer Indell agreed. "Have you a preference, Firell?"

Firell should say the same—she knew she should. And yet she opened her mouth and felt herself say, "What options remain to me?"

It was foolish, she should have been listening, but Healer Indell did not judge her, only looked down again at her terminal. "There is need for a healer temporarily on Bhirinn," she said, "as they have experienced a handful of minor earthquakes. And there has been a request that several healers be made available to the Anla'shok."

For a moment, Firell waited. She still remembered vividly what it had felt like to be called to healing; no words, nothing so fully formed as a thought, only _knowing_ that it was right and that she must do it. Even that was quiet, compared to some of the things the other students had told her when she had asked them whether they had ever felt a calling. But it had been unmistakable, and for all that it had only happened once, Firell could not forget it.

But her heart did not speak; and in the silence it left for her, Firell found herself thinking: _I have always wanted to serve on a starship_. She had heard of Bhirinn, recalled that it had been termed beautiful; but the Anla'shok trod many, many worlds, bright and dark and all shades between, and the vast loveliness of space besides. In their company, she would serve all worlds—all people—the galaxy.

"The—the Anla'shok," Firell said, because—because if it mattered to her but did not matter to Dukhenn, then why should they not both be happy?

It was true enough, reasonable enough, but still Firell felt bold and selfish; she thought surely Healer Indell would see it and refuse her, but Healer Indell only bowed her head. "Very well," she said to Firell and Dukhenn. "It is settled, then."

  


* * *

  


The journey to Yedor was long but very pleasant, and Firell had never seen anything so beautiful as the great temple of the Anla'shok. She approached it on foot at sunset, and the red and white and gold reflecting from its vast crystalline panes and facets made it a pillar of fire, a blade of light.

There was no shipboard posting available just yet, she was told; she had been requested in anticipation of the gradually-nearing launch of the _Valen_ , its escort ship or ships, and several other ships either new or repaired that would be launching at nearly the same time, to fill out the complement of any vessel that came up short. In the meantime, she would join the temple staff who dealt with the small aches and pains of the trainees, and occasionally the more serious accidents that occurred during sparring matches.

Simple work, yet satisfying, and there would be a ship soon enough. Firell did whatever she was asked and did it as well as she was able, and perhaps she had not been called as she should have been but perhaps that was all right.

  


*

  


She did not hear about Bhirinn until nearly three days after it had happened. That was simply how long it had taken the news to be received—word spread so quickly through the temple that there was no keeping such things a secret.

There would be a memorial gathering—that was the portion Firell heard first. The why of it came more slowly: Rangers dead, she heard in the hall; an ISA world gravely damaged, she learned at the midday meal; many lives lost, she was told by another healer working the evening shift. When she had completed her day's work, she went back to her assigned room and activated her terminal.

An eruption—that was what she read. Mild tremors were not uncommon on parts of Bhirinn, and had been expected; these most recent, with the vicious clarity of hindsight, had not been the usual periodic quakes but rather a warning sign. Firell let the statistics scroll past her and tried not to imagine how Dukhenn might have died—for he was dead, there was no question of it; two cities were gone, and Dukhenn had been in one of them.

Dukhenn had been in one of them because Firell had not: because Firell had _chosen_ not to be, and did not even have the paltry comfort of awareness that destiny had moved her to choose it. In the absence of her heart's guidance, she should have spoken as Dukhenn had spoken—then at least it would have been out of her hands, and she would have known that the universe had done as it pleased.

But she had not; and she sat before her terminal in the dimness of her room as the names of the dead scrolled by, and wished bitterly that she knew— _knew_ , beyond doubt or question—whether it was right that she was there to see them.

  


* * *

  


_In dreams, I never see my face._

  


* * *

  


Malcolm had known that covert ops in the Rangers was a brand shiny new idea. Minbari, especially warrior-caste Minbari, weren't usually real good at the whole "being sneaky" thing, and the Rangers had been all warrior-caste, by birth or by calling, until Jeff Sinclair had gotten himself in charge of them. They hadn't had anything even approaching a covert ops specialization in the thousand years they'd been around, and they weren't especially eager to start. It didn't suit their whole relentless straightforward honor-until-death vibe, and a lot of them felt kind of weird about it. Malcolm had known that.

But he hadn't _known_ it.

  


* * *

  


He didn't even really pick up on it until about the fourth time he got held late after a mission. Everybody went through some kind of debriefing—Sinclair hadn't had to introduce that concept, Minbari already loved analyzing things half to death. But at least one of the alyt always seemed to have some extra questions for Malcolm, or to want to go through everything one more time, or to feel the need to cross-check his report and make him answer for every place it was different from the report the guy next to him had filed.

The fourth time, they finally finished up, told him what his next assignment would be—Gregg was getting a new ship, the _Mirila_ grounded for repairs, and he liked Malcolm, had asked for him—and then they let him go. He was tired and a little annoyed, and the trip back to his room hadn't really done much to dispel it, so when he almost walked into Anla'shok Liyann in the hallway, he was still frowning.

Liyann noticed, obviously—she'd been on a team with Malcolm a couple times before during training exercises—and she stopped him before he could apologize for smacking into her and studied his face for a moment. "You are upset," she said.

"A little," Malcolm admitted. "Just tired. It was a two-day trip back from Kereel, and I don't know why it's always _me_ they want to talk to—why couldn't Itzeen or Madraal be the one who has to stay and debrief for two extra hours?" He made a face after—it wasn't exactly hyperbole, it had been two hours by the ISA standard the Rangers kept to, but he was mostly whining and he knew it.

Liyann didn't look scolding, though, the way Minbari usually looked when you complained in front of them. She looked a little uncertain, a little uncomfortable. She hesitated, and then touched his arm and said, "Minbari do not lie."

"Oh, and I—well, okay, of course I do, I'm covert ops," Malcolm said, and then suddenly he realized what she meant and stared. "What, they think I would—these are _mission reports_ , not covert assignments, why the hell would I—"

"I do not know it goes as far as thinking in so many words that you would," Liyann said carefully. "Only that—"

"Minbari do not lie, yeah, I get it," Malcolm murmured. "They just aren't sure about me. Awesome."

  


*

  


He went out to the temple plaza to think about it, because he didn't much feel like being inside the temple for a while. There was a wide open space—triangular, because Minbari had built it—at the end of the broad avenue that led to the temple, and there were a whole bunch of simple abstractly-shaped stone benches and some crystalline fountains and stuff. Malcolm picked a spot to sit down, and then he sat down and he thought about it.

He got it, sort of. Minbari knew how they felt about lying ( _really_ strongly), and they knew how Humans felt about lying (noticeably less strongly), and here was a Human whose _job_ pretty much was lying, in a certain sense. But he was doing it—he was doing it _for_ them, to _serve_ them, and he'd taken all the same oaths and pledges as everybody else. He did what they asked him to do and then they turned around and doubted him for it, and thinking that made him feel tired; really tired, bone-deep tired, and he didn't want to feel like that about being a Ranger.

"You okay?"

Malcolm looked up.

It was a Human, some guy who looked vaguely familiar—nobody who'd been on any of Malcolm's teams before, but if he'd trained here then Malcolm had probably seen him around. "Sure, yeah," Malcolm said, and then sighed.

"Uh huh," the guy said, raising a dubious eyebrow. "That was a hell of a sigh for somebody who's okay."

Malcolm sized him up. Probably he wouldn't have come up and asked if he really didn't want an answer—he could have just kept walking by as though he hadn't seen Malcolm, but he'd stopped instead. So Malcolm told him. Most of it, anyway, and then when he got close to the end the guy started nodding before Malcolm had even finished explaining.

"Minbari do not lie, yeah," the guy said, and then smiled—slanted, a little rueful. "I've heard that one before."

"Yeah," Malcolm said heavily, and didn't quite manage to smile back.

The guy looked at him for a second and then shrugged. "You know what it sounds like to me?" he said.

"What?"

"It sounds like they're afraid you're smarter than they are," the guy answered, light. "They don't lie, they need somebody who's really good at it to do it for them, and then they've got you _because_ you're better at it than they are—so how are they ever going to be able to tell if you're doing it to them? Nothing Minbari hate more than having the wool pulled over their eyes."

Malcolm laughed despite himself. It was a little silly, an obviously too-generous interpretation, but the guy had pulled it off: he had just the right kind of openness in the relaxed way he held his shoulders, the look on his face—and just the right voice for it, friendly and a little wry, confiding. Malcolm was going to have to ask him whether he'd let himself get added to the covert ops vocal modulator library. "What a subtle analysis," he said.

"You didn't really look like you needed subtle," the guy said, grinning. "But, look, all kidding aside: if they've been digging that hard for a reason to not trust you and they still haven't found one, then there probably isn't one. That's not a bad thing. And you must be pretty good if they keep sending you out there even though they don't like you." The guy made a show of looking Malcolm over assessingly. "Tell you what—if you decide to stick around, then when I get a ship, I'll ask for you."

Malcolm almost laughed again, just at the guy's sheer matter-of-fact confidence. "If I decide to stick around," Malcolm said, "then when you ask for me, I'll probably say yes."

The guy's eyebrows went up again. "Probably?"

Malcolm leaned back, matching the guy's body language head to toe, and gave the guy the same assessing look the guy had given him. "I haven't decided whether I like you yet," he said, and it wasn't as good without the modulator, but he could still do a fair go at the guy's intonation.

The guy tilted his head back and laughed, and then grinned at Malcolm so sincerely Malcolm kind of had to smile back. " _Everybody_ likes me," the guy said.

He was kidding, but Malcolm thought it was probably true.

"Anyway," the guy was saying, "just don't get impatient—I've got at least one more tour of duty to serve before they'll make me a shok-na."

"Yeah?"

The guy nodded. "Headed out with Gregg on the _Enfali_ next week, as shok-nali."

Malcolm blinked. "Wait, really?"

"Yeah," the guy said, and then looked at Malcolm more carefully. "What, you too?"

"Yep," Malcolm said, and found himself smiling again. "Guess I'll have plenty of time to decide whether I like you or not."

The guy grinned again. "David Martell," he said, holding out his hand.

"Malcolm Bridges," Malcolm said, and shook it.

  


* * *

  


_I understand nobody else would have me._

  


* * *

  


Na'Feel had had to win a great many fights to become part of the Rangers. With what had been left of her family, first—her mother and her mother's pouchsister—and then with what seemed like at least half the members of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Circles of the Kha'Ri, which her mother had invited one at a time to do their best to change Na'Feel's mind. They had said the same things over and over, as though Mother had coached them—probably she had. It didn't matter that the Centauri Republic had left the ISA; the Alliance still had Centauri fingerprints all over it, there couldn't be any doubt of that. The worlds of the ISA had not saved Narn—Narn had saved Narn, and it would never be any other way. It would always be up to Narn to save Narn, because no one else would ever do it for them, and all the sweet words of the ISA were nothing beside this truth. What did Na'Feel hope to accomplish? Did she intend to buy consideration, respect, friendship, if she joined their precious Rangers—if she did what she was told, spent her whole life in their service? There were words for Narn who had tried that strategy with the Centauri, words Na'Feel had hurled herself—

(That had usually been about when Na'Feel had started shouting.)

She had had to fight a little bit with the ISA, too. They _wanted_ Narn in the Rangers; they had started every conversation with Na'Feel by saying so, as though truth were a matter of quantity instead of content. But—and if nothing else, Na'Feel could appreciate that they were so frank about it—whoever the first Narn Ranger was, _everybody_ was going to be looking at them. It wasn't right and it wasn't fair but it _was_ true; and that first Narn Ranger needed to be the most exemplary Ranger in the galaxy, at least until it became old news. They wouldn't be able to do a thing for her if she wasn't up to it; and if she wasn't, they wanted to know about it sooner rather than later.

(Na'Feel had replied that if that was what was necessary, then she would be so exemplary that there would be a statue of her in every Ranger temple from here to the rim. The Human woman who had been doing the talking—dark hair, bound back neatly; warm eyes, grave face—had looked at her silently for a moment and then suddenly smiled. "I think you'll do great," she'd said. "But don't tell anybody I said that.")

And she'd had to fight a little bit with herself. She wouldn't exactly call herself an adherent, but she had a copy of the Book of G'Kar, and in her better moments she knew she was doing the right thing. _Greater than the death of flesh is the death of hope, the death of dreams_ —Na'Feel wanted Narn's dreams alive, wanted to sow their seeds so deeply and so widely that nothing would ever be able to root them all up. Mother wanted Narn to close its doors to the rest of the galaxy, to turn its back as backs had been turned upon it in the past and find security, peace, in its solitude. But Narn had been alone when the Shadows had found it, when the Centauri had found it, and had suffered anyway—solitude wasn't the answer. Bitterness was a hard, cold ground to ask dreams to sprout from.

But in her worse moments—

(In her worse moments she thought that she would never stop hating the universe for sitting back and letting Narn burn.)

Na'Feel had fought a great many things to become part of the Rangers; but she hadn't expected to need to fight the Rangers, too.

  


* * *

  


She completed her training a shade more quickly than average—not so much so that she could be thought to have cheated or to have been accelerated through, but quickly enough that no one could claim she was unsuitable. (After being so carefully educated by the Centauri, the Narn had come to understand the importance of appearances.)

Na'Feel had been working as an engineer before the war, and had found many ways to refine her skills during; it did not take long for her instructors to certify her specialization, once she had accrued enough experience with Minbari systems. She also learned to appreciate the Minbari ability to keep a straight face: she got nothing but a placid nod when she offered up weapons as a secondary specialty, though the Minbari must have heard as much about Narn terrorism as the Centauri were able to shout at them.

And then—nothing.

She wasn't assigned. Not anywhere. Not as a ship's engineer, not in a secondary weapons position, not even as an extra pair of hands with a denn'bok in them; not to a flagship, not to a patrol ship, not even to a tok-swallowing son-of-a-fish Minbari garbage scow. Nothing.

  


*

  


Sech Turval had said he would keep her informed about any inquiries—assignments were sometimes made for smaller teams, but Na'Feel wished to be _chosen_ , to be granted a long-term position on a Ranger ship. So she waited. She did odd jobs around the temple. She sparred with those who desired additional practice. (Or were assigned it, which tended to make them less than gracious, but Na'Feel smiled at them extra warmly—it seemed to frustrate them very much—and didn't let herself take it to heart.)

And then, when she couldn't wait any longer, she went to Sech Turval.

"They won't take me."

Sech Turval looked up from whatever esoteric religious text he'd been pondering—the thoughtful expression on his face didn't change, even though he was pointing it at Na'Feel now instead of the book. "Anla'shok Na'Feel—"

"Minbari do not lie," Na'Feel reminded him. "Just say it: they won't take me."

"All right," Sech Turval said amiably. "They won't take you."

Na'Feel gave him a flat look. He'd said it all wrong, he was supposed to take this seriously—it was supposed to hurt.

"Even anla'shok may fall prey to the lure of the familiar," Sech Turval said. "Does this surprise you? Are you taken aback to discover that the foolish, the small-minded, the fearful, do not simply incinerate upon contact with these hallowed halls?"

Na'Feel sighed. Sech Turval kept a second seat beside his desk; she threw herself into it and put an elbow on the desk. "Rangers aren't cowards—"

"We live for the One, we die for the One," Sech Turval intoned, and then spread his hands. "We are not required to say 'we will be considerate for the One'. 'We will be generous for the One'—'we will keep our minds open for the One'—'we will accept difference for the One'—missed opportunities, all." He shook his head and sighed, exaggeratedly mournful. "Sometimes I think it is a little too obvious that the warrior caste was responsible for codifying the principles of the Anla'shok.

"But of course the religious caste has not always been any better. It is easy to talk about the great unending oneness of the universe, to say that we are all part of a singular and transcendent whole that is yearning for understanding. It is much more difficult to actually _extend_ understanding to the stubborn, volatile, impatient, frustrating creatures that surround us."

Na'Feel eyed him. "If that's your way of calling me impatient—"

Sech Turval laughed. "Never," he said, as gravely as he could when he was still smiling. "But tell me truly, Anla'shok Na'Feel. These alyt and shai alyt, these shok-na, who see your file and read your name and pass you by: would you _want_ them to take you? If I called in the many, many favors I am owed and had you placed upon the _Valen_ itself when it launches—would you accept it?"

He was looking at her in a way that meant he already knew the answer to that question, and knew that he knew it. Na'Feel had always hated that expression.

"No," she said anyway, because—because she wanted to hear herself say it.

"And well you should not," Sech Turval said, and then his face turned suddenly serious. "Better you should stay here forever, Anla'shok Na'Feel—better you should leave the Rangers entirely than dedicate your life and your service to a shok-na who would so wholly refuse to value it."

"When you put it like that, I _will_ be here forever," Na'Feel said.

Sech Turval smiled. "I do not think so," he said thoughtfully. "The universe is changing. Once there were no anla'shok who were not warrior-caste by birth or by calling; now there are Humans, now there are religious-caste and worker-caste. Soon there will be Abbai, Yolu, Pak'ma'ra—Narn. The Humans have a story about the foolishness of trying to turn back a tide that is coming in; I do not think the Council knows this story, but I think they are starting to learn its lesson."

"And in the meantime I just have to sit here and rot," Na'Feel grumbled—for show, more than anything. Sech Turval was right: Na'Feel didn't want to settle for less than being chosen, being valued. And if she couldn't get that here, she _would_ go somewhere else; but first she could probably stand to wait just a little longer.

"You have to sit in your own room and rot," Sech Turval corrected. "I am a very important man with very important work to do."

Na'Feel peered at the book on his desk—upside down, from where she was sitting, but still visible. "You're drawing in the margins," she said.

Sech Turval lifted his chin and drew the book toward himself defensively. "There are few pursuits nobler than the quest to seek out art where it hides within the everyday," he said, mock-sternly; and Na'Feel sat back in her chair and let herself laugh.

  


* * *

  


_Tirk. Drazi._

  


* * *

  


Zhabar was warm. Tirk liked Zhabar.

Minbar was cold. Tirk did not like Minbar.

  


*

  


No one had told Tirk Minbar was cold. Or if they had Tirk did not remember. And Tirk had a very good memory.

Vizak had explained a great many things to Tirk before Tirk had been sent to Minbar. Tirk was not to hit anyone unless they were also Drazi, or had hit him first, or both. Tirk would not join the choosing of the Shadak, because there might not be any other Drazi near enough for him to fight with when the time came. (If he could not be defeated, his side could not lose. The rules of the choosing of the Shadak were not prepared for this possibility.) Tirk was serving the Freehold well. Tirk was serving the Drazi well.

Tirk had asked Vizak which Drazi. Vizak had said that the Minbari had said all Drazi would be served by Tirk's entry into the Rangers. Tirk and Vizak had agreed that this was a very strange thing to say. Vizak had told Tirk that he should choose some Drazi he liked better than other Drazi, and his service could be for them. But also that he should not tell the Minbari about it, because Vizak thought they wouldn't like it. Tirk had agreed that this was wise.

Tirk would learn to use a Minbari weapon. Tirk would learn to use Minbari words. Tirk would learn some very odd Minbari ideas—but listening to them would not make him less Drazi, Vizak had told him, as long as he was careful not to believe any of them. Tirk would live for the One; Tirk would die for the One. (Tirk found this very appealing. There were some things about the Minbari that were not so strange after all.)

Tirk had agreed to all these things. It would not be easy, he had thought, but to be Drazi was to sometimes do what was difficult, because it was there and could be done.

But no one had told Tirk Minbar was cold.

  


*

  


Morra II was warm. Morra II was where Tirk had gone for his training. It was not a Minbari world, but a Ranger temple had been founded there. Tirk had trained alongside many Humans, who had also seemed to like Morra II. They had used the word "Tahiti" a lot.

There had also been some Minbari. They had not liked Morra II. Tirk had already known that Minbari were very strange; this had not seemed stranger than anything else about them.

Tirk was used to fighting with knives, but it was possible to hit very hard with Minbari sticks. Tirk liked that. The training had involved sometimes sitting very still and sometimes moving very fast. Tirk was good at both of those things. After a little while hitting very hard, sitting very still, and moving very fast, the Minbari had also agreed that he was good at those things, and said a lot of words that meant Tirk could go be on a ship.

The ship Tirk was going to be on would be on Minbar; so Tirk was on Minbar. Tirk had done many things that were difficult, but he liked difficult. He did not like cold.

He was a Ranger, for the sake of the Drazi he liked best. He could not go back to Zhabar. But he stood on Minbar and was cold, and thought to himself that he would like to be somewhere else.

  


* * *

  


_My life for the shok-na._

  


* * *

  


David seemed almost—happier, after his fight with Tannier; steadier. As though defeating Tannier in a sparring match for the fifteenth time had taught him something about himself he hadn't learned the first fourteen times. Of course, Dulann thought, Humans _could_ be remarkably thick-headed, for all that they were crestless. Maybe that was it.

Dulann, though, did not feel steadier. In point of fact, Dulann felt more off-balance than he could remember feeling in a dozen cycles.

It had always been somewhat difficult for Dulann to remember what others could and could not perceive about the world and the people around them. In that moment on the bridge, the words _stand down_ still ringing in Dulann's ears, he had looked at David and had seen, inescapably. He could interpret it, could call it altruism, responsibility, sheer awareness that the lives aboard the _Enfali_ were worth more than David's honor; but there was no word even in any Minbari tongue that could capture the _seeing_ of it, the gleam and brilliance and color-that-was-not-color, the clarity of understanding that had come with it.

Brann had objected, Dulann remembered that, but Dulann had thought to himself at the time that it was for form's sake, and even a little bit petty—at a time like that, to be worrying about following the rules to the letter when David so clearly intended to respect their spirit? It had not seemed fitting for a Ranger; but then stress, uncertainty, the sudden death of a respected shok-na, could do strange things to the mind—could find a person focusing on the oddest of details at the oddest of moments. Dulann could understand that well enough.

But here, in the temple, none of those factors had been in play. Dulann had attempted to restrain David from assisting Tannier in engaging in the pompous prideful schoolboy fights Tannier so favored—because that was what Dulann had thought had been happening. But he had seen Tannier's face while they fought, had seen the look on it when David had beaten him for that fifteenth time, and it had made Dulann feel suddenly cold.

Tannier had been _serious_.

Dulann hadn't thought—hadn't thought it possible, hadn't thought anyone _could_ be. That the Council might decide to actually remove David from the Anla'shok for saving lives had seemed so blatantly ridiculous an outcome that Dulann had barely given it a second thought.

But Tannier had been serious, and abruptly it had occurred to Dulann that the Council might be serious, too; and for the first time through all of this Dulann felt himself unmoored. That they could be so wilfully foolish—but was it wilfulness, when they could not see what Dulann had seen? If you did not see David as Dulann saw David—if you did not trust David as Sarah trusted David—then what would his actions have said to you? Dulann was suddenly no longer sure. And if the Council _did_ relieve David of his duty, if they stripped the title of Anla'shok from him and forced him to return his isil'zha—

"Hey."

Dulann looked up. At some point since the time when he had left the training room, it had grown dark, he realized; the stone he had seated himself on had grown cool against his hands, and the temple garden was now a grove of shadows.

And Sarah was standing in front of him, arms crossed, looking down at him with narrowed eyes.

"What's up?" she said. "And if you say 'the sky' one more time, I'll kick you in the shins. That joke hasn't been funny in three hundred years."

"Everything I say is funny," Dulann told her serenely.

It was not enough to distract her. "I've got a feeling it won't be in a minute," she said. "The last time anybody saw you inside was hours ago. Have you been out here that whole time?"

"I have been thinking," Dulann said, and then permitted himself to blurt it out: "I will not stay."

Sarah blinked.

"If they expel David from the Anla'shok," Dulann clarified. "I—I will not stay."

Sarah would surely scold him for it; there was no doubt in his mind that she _should_. He had sworn his life to the service of the Anla'shok, and yet the first time the Council made a choice he did not like, he found it cause enough to be forsworn—it was pathetic! Had he truly given his oaths so thoughtlessly? With such petty selfishness? He could have spent his life refining his latent gift, working as a trained telepath, but had felt himself called to the Anla'shok, profoundly so; and yet he would now so readily set it aside? Was the dedication he had thought he felt as weak as that?

But he looked up at Sarah and saw no anger, no surprise—not even disappointment. She gazed at him, eyes alight, and said, "That's _perfect_."

"Sarah—" Dulann began, because of all the things it was, "perfect" most certainly was not one; but she did not let him finish.

"We'll tell them that," she said. "We'll tell them that if they throw David out, then we're going with him."

Dulann stared at her, and tried to figure out which question to ask first. "You—"

"Okay, I think maybe this is my moment to cut in."

Dulann saw Sarah jerk out of the corner of his eye, even as he himself was in the middle of startling. The voice had come out of the shadows somewhere behind Dulann, and when Dulann looked he saw—a hand, raised defensively, and then a face as the person behind the hand stepped nearer: Anla'shok Bridges.

"Sorry, sorry," Anla'shok Bridges was saying, "I get it, that was totally creepy of me. I thought it would be creepier to just keep standing there without saying anything, but I realize that doesn't make it much better."

"I _hate_ covert ops specialists," Sarah muttered—as though to herself, but Dulann didn't think she'd taken any particular pains to say it quietly enough that Bridges wouldn't hear. Although it was always hard to be sure, with Humans and their huge dull ears.

Anla'shok Bridges grimaced, rueful, and rubbed a hand along the nape of his neck. "Yeah, I know—sorry," he said again. "Please don't punch me in the face, Cantrell. I saw you leave, and I thought maybe you were going to find Dulann, and I know you guys are friends with Shok-nali Martell—"

"And what makes that your business?" Sarah said, sharp.

Anla'shok Bridges shrugged helplessly. "If they're really going to kick him out—I don't know. I want to do something about it, if I can." He hesitated, and then added, "He's the reason I'm still here, in more ways than just the one you know about. I'd like to return the favor."

"This is ridiculous," Dulann said calmly, because someone had to—because Sarah was looking at Anla'shok Bridges assessingly now, speculatively, instead of angrily. "This is inappropriate—"

"That's a little hilarious coming from you," Sarah said. Her thoughtful gaze swiveled to him instead of Anla'shok Bridges, and he felt the sudden urge to shield himself from it, to dive backward into the shadows or cover his face with his hands.

"We are conspiring to _break our oaths_ ," Dulann enunciated carefully. For all the wisdom the Council had sometimes managed to show, he wasn't Tannier, and he placed no trust in their supposed infallibility—that only made it worse. He had not joined the ranks of the Anla'shok out of respect for the Council or the weight of tradition; he had joined the ranks of the Anla'shok out of respect for the institution itself, for its mission, for the calling he had felt to become part of this thing that would do so much good—to become his best self within it. That he could now so readily say he would throw all that aside—

"We swore not to run away from a fight," Sarah said. "We didn't swear the fight wouldn't be with the Council."

"Sarah—"

"I saw the look on your face," she said quietly, before he could finish. "On the bridge of the _Enfali_ —I know. You saw something, didn't you? In David, when he gave the order."

Dulann didn't answer. She would know whether he said it or not.

Sarah had been standing, feet planted—her feet were always planted, Dulann thought, that was just how Sarah stood everywhere, but she'd actually gone into a battle stance when Anla'shok Bridges had startled her, and then she'd crossed her arms again while she was questioning him: it had made her a wall, a statue. Now she crouched, to look Dulann in the eye, and reached out and touched his shoulder—it was almost startling to watch her bend.

"I saw it, too," Sarah said. "Not like you do, not like that; but I saw it, too. I _see_ it." She looked at Dulann silently for a moment, all seriousness; and then she angled a wry glance up at Anla'shok Bridges. "Malcolm probably sees it, too, or he wouldn't have followed me out here even though he knew I might punch him in the face."

"I was hoping we'd kind of tacitly decided that wasn't going to happen," Bridges—Malcolm—said, wincing, and then he looked at Dulann and back at Sarah and sobered. "Yeah. Yeah, I see it."

Sarah squeezed Dulann's shoulder—did all Humans think of leaving bruises as a sign of affection? Or was it just Sarah?—and then slapped it, brisk. "So you tell the Council we're going if he goes, and in the meantime—"

" _I_ —"

"Everybody knows you can see stuff other people can't," Sarah said. "They'll believe it, coming from you. Cowardly, irrational Humans defending other cowardly, irrational Humans? Please. Humans don't really understand the Ranger tradition anyway," and she wiggled her fingers and widened her eyes when she said _Ranger tradition_ , parodying awe in a way that would have made any Council member sputter with outrage. It probably _was_ for the best to keep her as far away from a Council meeting as possible, Dulann thought. "If you go, they can't say we're doing it because he's Human or because we're Human or that we don't know what we're talking about." Sarah raised her eyebrows at him. "What, are you nervous? 'We walk in the dark places no others will enter'—"

"The Council chamber is certainly dark," Dulann agreed, dry, "but I am not certain it meets the second criterion, considering—"

"Well, you sure as hell aren't supposed to enter," Malcolm said.

"And if they kick us all out anyway—" Sarah shrugged, easy. "Maybe that's okay. Maybe we should accept that. Maybe we were just here until we could figure out where else we should be."

Dulann looked at her for a long moment. "You are giving me my own advice," he observed. "It's annoying advice." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Interesting. It wasn't annoying when I said it to you."

Sarah grinned at him, toothy. "They're supposed to talk to him tomorrow," she said. "You go to the Council room—you have to get in there before they start, because they're not going to let you in after. I'll keep track of David, make sure he doesn't go looking for you. This'll work better if he doesn't know it's coming. The Council won't like it if they think he arranged this with us or asked us to do it."

"What about me?" Malcolm said.

"You—you figure out what we might need," Sarah said, "and how to get it if we have to. Equipment—comms, all your fancy covert ops stuff, whatever. If we're going to—vigilante our way across the galaxy or found our own order of Rangers or something, there's some things we'll want to have with us."

"Sounds good," Malcolm said, and he sounded like—like he _meant_ it, like he was satisfied with that answer. Like it hadn't pulled the very ground out from underneath his feet.

So maybe it was just Dulann who was adrift. He had been told before—often by Humans, though not always—that his serenity was irritating, that he was frustratingly difficult to unnerve or insult or provoke. He had taken a quiet pride in those comments, but the truth was that he had nothing to be proud of: that sense of ease was something that had always come readily to him, without struggle. It was not a difficult thing to attain when you were certain of yourself, your place, and Dulann had been ever since he had felt himself called to the Anla'shok, had never doubted either one. Perhaps, then, this was a lesson he needed to learn—how to feel his foundations shaken and accept it, how to sail uncharted stars. How to walk in dark places.

"This is a terrible idea," he said aloud, contemplative.

"You're the one who came up with it," Sarah reminded him.

"I was hoping you would talk me _out_ of it."

Sarah tilted her head and gazed at him sadly. "Four years," she murmured. " _Four_. And yet sometimes it's like you don't know me at all."

"Yes," Dulann agreed, "it is clear to me now that I expected too much," and even before he'd finished saying it, Sarah had already started to laugh.

  


* * *

  


_I'm—looking for something._

  


* * *

  


The walk to medbay wasn't long enough. No walk could be long enough for this, David thought—especially not on a ship the size of the _Liandra_.

Reading all those myths, all those legends, all those fables and fairytales and folk stories, had given David kind of a feel for which ones were going to end kindly and which ones weren't. Some of the classics were really obvious about it, setting up the hero, the fatal flaw, the single weakness, like dominoes you couldn't help but watch tip over, even though you knew it was coming. David had loved and hated those ones at the same time, reading onward with awful fascination, wanting to reach in and warn somebody, _anybody_. And now—

Now he wished somebody had been able to reach into this story and warn _him_. Because the ending to this one was getting increasingly obvious, the thought looming so large he couldn't stop circling it, like it was a drain, a black hole: they were _doomed_. They were—they were so incredibly doomed. He'd tried _everything_ , every good idea and half the bad ones, everything he could think of, and it still wasn't going to be enough. _He_ wasn't going to be enough. He'd wanted this for so long, worked so hard to get his own ship—and now he was finally a shok-na, _finally_ , and everybody on this crew was trusting him and following his lead. But he'd run out of ideas, given everything he had to give and still hadn't managed to save them, and now—now, they were all going to die.

David was a Ranger, he'd been in tough spots before; but, alone in the _Liandra_ 's corridors, he could admit to himself that it hadn't ever been this bad. And the worst part was—

The worst part was that it might not even have happened if it weren't for him.

If he'd asked Dulann, G'Kar, to leave the Council chamber—if he'd bowed his head and accepted the Council's judgment the way they'd wanted him to—what would have happened? They wouldn't have given him the _Liandra_ , that part was easy enough. Would Tannier still have asked whoever had captained it to be his escort? Probably not, David couldn't help thinking. He would have asked someone else, one of his friends who was already a shok-na—someone with a ship that wasn't still being soldered back together ten minutes before launch. Maybe even someone with a big ship, a White Star, something with enough guns to take out the Hand before they could blow up the colony. The _Valen_ and a White Star, together, could have won outright. Tannier and six hundred other people could still be alive if David had just—had just _left_ —

David stopped short just outside the medbay doors and put his hands against the wall, pressed his forehead against the cool metal and closed his eyes. Since the very first day he'd learned about the Rangers, he had never, _never_ doubted that they were it for him—that that was where he was meant to be. Through all the training, the bruises, the broken wrists and sprained ankles, Tannier's dubious stares and the sechs shaking their heads—the bad missions, the worst ones, where people died and things went wrong—David had never doubted that he was still doing some kind of good, that it was better that he was there.

But now—

He made himself take a deep breath, lifted his head away from the wall and unclenched his hands. (He didn't remember clenching them; they were aching, so he must have done it a while ago.) Dulann was still alive—Firell would have commed David if he weren't. David was going to go into the medbay and smile, tell Dulann everything was fine, and then he was going to make it true if he had to tear the third Hand ship apart with his teeth. Which was ridiculous self-indulgent hyperbole—if only he _could_ tear the third Hand ship apart with his teeth, that would be one plan more than he had available right now—but it made him feel a little better anyway.

He went into the medbay. It was quiet in there, a good kind of quiet compared to the tension that had kept choking up the bridge. Dulann was lying unpleasantly still, but David could see his chest moving as he breathed; and Firell was putting something away, turning toward her terminal, but she moved around the medbay like she was waltzing, all light, easy, silent steps.

She saw David and turned to incline her head to him before reaching again for her terminal. It wasn't a surprise that she could manage such perfect calm even at a time like this—she was Minbari, which was cheating, and a healer, which was cheating even more.

"He okay?" David murmured, trying to keep it down for Dulann's sake.

Firell fixed him with a grave wide-eyed stare. "He is dying," she said—softly, not meanly, but David still felt it like a blow. Dulann—Dulann had tried to save him, had put himself between David and the Council, and for what? For _this_? So _this_ could happen?

(If David had just _left_ —)

"And you can't—"

"I would, if I were able," Firell said very quietly, lowering her gaze, and that made David feel like an ass.

"No, no, I didn't mean—sorry," he said, and grimaced. He paused and blew out a breath, and then shook his head. "I'm just—this is basically the worst day of my entire life. Sorry."

"It is most likely the worst day of all our lives," Firell said.

David couldn't argue with that. He'd wanted to be a hero, to help people, and she—she was a healer for a reason, she wanted to save lives, and neither one of them was going to be able to do those things today. She had to feel at least as helpless as he did, even if she was handling it better. Which she absolutely was.

"I just wish—I wish I knew whether I did the right thing," David said, and because he was already a completely terrible shok-na, maybe it was okay that he let himself close his eyes again, let himself look tired where Firell could see him.

It was dark behind David's eyelids, and still so quiet in the medbay—if he were Minbari, maybe he'd be able to hear Dulann's breathing, but as it was he couldn't pick it out from the background hum of the ship's ventilation systems. He listened to himself breathe instead, and tried not to wonder what Firell thought about her jackass shok-na standing there like a lump with his eyes shut—

That noise was cloth, not breathing, and too close to be Dulann; and it was his only warning before a weight came down against his chest—Firell's hand, he thought, and opened his eyes.

It _was_ her hand—not in a creepy way, just three fingers resting high against his breastbone, a little beneath the spot where his collarbones met. David had seen Minbari do this before, but he hadn't—same hand? Opposite hand, he was pretty sure. He reached out and mirrored the gesture, met Firell's eyes: she was looking at him with a gaze so full of silent understanding, gentle sorrowful empathy, that it actually made his eyes sting a little.

"Some choices cannot be unmade," she said, low and sad and certain; and then her expression turned wry. "But if the universe desired perfection from us, it would give us better guidance. And, Shok-na Martell, consider: if we all die today, then you will make no more mistakes."

David huffed out half a laugh, startled. "And if we all live, then I guess it wasn't that bad a mistake," he murmured. "Win-win."

Firell smiled and drew her hand away. "One day," she told him, "I will discover the medical reason why Humans insist on reducing all situations into binaries. I am certain that there is one."

"Maybe there is, maybe there isn't," David said, just to see whether she'd roll her eyes.

She didn't—but she did purse her lips and give him a flat look before she moved away. "He will probably wake soon," she said, nodding toward Dulann. "I do not mind, if you would like to wait."

"Yeah," David said, "yeah, I would. And—thanks, Firell."

"The honor is mine, Shok-na Martell," she said, inclining her head, and he almost managed to convince himself she meant it.

  


* * *

  


  


* * *

  


After it was all over and they'd cleared the jumpgate, David half expected them to blow up in hyperspace, just to put a cherry on top of the whole thing. But the _Liandra_ managed to limp all the way back to Minbar, and the trip down through the atmosphere was bumpy but didn't end with a brass-and-green smear pasted to the ground.

So: win. Definitely a win.

Kit had commed down to the temple before they'd even started their approach, so everybody on the ground was ready for them. All the squalling diplomats were whisked away to have their ruffled feathers smoothed, and Dulann—Dulann was stabilized, still in the _Liandra_ 's medbay, and then carried out by a flock of dark-robed healers. Firell was among them, David saw, her mouth moving: probably filling the rest of them in on Dulann's condition. It was stupid, David barely even knew her, but it made him feel better to think she'd be there in the temple medbay while they were taking care of Dulann.

Kit had wobbled out of the _Liandra_ and was sitting on the landing field next to the ship's ramp, staring at his hands. He'd been calm, easy, focused, even through the worst of the turbulence on their way down—but now, David thought, now it had to be catching up to him.

David took a step toward Kit and then stopped. Na'Feel had gotten there first, and she crouched in front of Kit, waiting for him to notice she was there. It took him a second; but he blinked twice and then lifted his head, looking at her dazedly. "If you ever do that to my engines again, I will stuff you inside of them," she said—loudly enough for David to hear from thirty feet away, and beaming all the while. And then she thumped the backs of her hands against Kit's shoulders and added, "Good job."

"Hey."

David jerked—he hadn't even noticed Sarah coming toward him, and she obviously knew it, because she raised her eyebrows.

"Easy there, Shok-na."

"I'm fine," David said, "I'm fine, I just—"

"—have been smack in the middle of an incredibly dangerous, stressful situation for nearly a whole day?" Sarah offered. "Really, really need some sleep?"

"Yes," David admitted, pressing the back of one hand to the bridge of his nose. He _did_ need some sleep—he should have slept, back on the ship, but he'd been wired the whole way back through hyperspace, waiting for something else to go wrong. Now that they were safe on the ground, though, he was struggling to keep his eyes open.

"Come on," Sarah said, taking his arm, and he found himself leaning on the contact gratefully. All the aches and pains he'd been ignoring, the bruises he'd gotten from being hurled around a hallway by that flunky for the Hand, were suddenly all clamoring for attention at once.

"I know where my room is," he protested feebly.

"Yeah," Sarah agreed, "but you look about as capable of getting there as a drunk kitten. I'll walk you." She paused for a beat and then pointed a warning finger at him. "And then _I'm_ sleeping for the next eighteen hours, so if you comm me before then no one will ever find your body."

"Noted," David said.

  


* * *

  


Sarah hadn't needed to worry: _David_ slept for the next eighteen hours, or near enough, and then woke blurrily in what turned out to be the middle of the night. He sat blinking in the dimness for a couple minutes, and then ransacked his room for all the food he could find and ate until he couldn't force down another bite.

When he finally wasn't hungry anymore, and wasn't tired anymore, there was nothing he could do but let himself think. He'd been avoiding it, but at last there was nothing left he could distract himself with.

Rangers were tough, but that—that hadn't been anything anyone on his crew had asked for, wasn't anything they could have expected. He'd picked them, but they'd all had to confirm; Na'Feel and Tirk hadn't had much choice, if they ever wanted to serve on a ship at all, but they'd still said yes.

But now—now, would they still? David wasn't sure.

Some choices couldn't be unmade, Firell hadn't been wrong about that; but maybe David could give them the chance to unmake this one. Even if he really, really didn't want to.

  


*

  


He paced around his room for a little while, trying to figure out exactly what he wanted to say, and then he booted up his terminal and recorded himself saying it. He sent it to them all before he could change his mind—better that it not be live, he'd decided, so they could take their time. It wasn't like he needed an answer before the _Liandra_ had gotten repaired again, after all. Besides, they all ought to have a chance to think about it without him staring right at them while they did it. And—

(And that way he wouldn't have to see the relief on their faces when they realized he was giving them an out.)

Sarah wasn't going to take it, he knew—as a rule, Sarah didn't take outs. Hell, she'd probably think he was being insulting by offering it. Dulann wasn't going to take it, either; David could picture the faintly incredulous and increasingly amused look he'd have on his face while he watched David's message. And he would watch it, all the way to the end, even though he'd've decided David was being stupid after the first five seconds. Although probably he wouldn't even see it until he was finished not dying in medbay.

Malcolm—who knew. The _Liandra_ couldn't be what he'd had in mind when he'd joked about saying yes to David before they'd shipped out on the _Enfali_ ; he'd stuck it out, because he was that kind of guy, and they'd have been goners without him, but that didn't mean he was going to want to do it again.

David had offered a sincere recommendation as part of the deal, mostly for Na'Feel's and Tirk's sakes; he knew they hadn't had any other offers except his, but maybe he could change that for them, give them some options. He'd had to let them know he would _try_ , at least, even if it didn't work. There were better odds for Tafeek, Firell, Kit—and they had to know it, so he wasn't going to blame them if they took him up on it.

He wouldn't have blamed any of them for taking him up on it.

  


* * *

  


After he was done, he turned off his message alerts—he'd told them all not to answer for at least a week so he could be sure they'd thought about it, but if Sarah decided to yell at him, she wasn't going to wait.

He had the day free: the diplomats were getting debriefed first, all of them, because they hadn't been trained to observe the way Rangers had and the Council wanted to hear it from them before they forgot the details. He spent a little while reading, a little while sparring with some trainees whose names he didn't know. He looked up every time the door opened (and got smacked in the ribs once as the price for his distraction) but it was never Sarah; he wasn't sure whether that was good or bad.

He probably shouldn't eat dinner in the mess, he knew that, but he'd cleaned out all the food he'd had tucked away in his room. He glanced around as he was finding a seat but couldn't see any of them—maybe they really weren't going to ambush him before the week was up—

"This seat taken?"

Sarah. David looked over his shoulder, grimacing pre-emptively, but Sarah looked more amused—and maybe a little pitying—than angry. And behind her—

"As it happens, no, _all_ of these seats are free, but—"

"And I already have a seat."

David blinked. "Dulann? You aren't supposed to be walking around yet—"

"And I am not," Dulann agreed, placid, wheeling a little closer. He looked kind of pinched around the eyes, the mouth; but his hands were steady on the rims of the wheelchair, and he was smiling. "No doubt a very irate healer will be here to collect me shortly, despite Firell's best efforts. But I am in fact capable of sitting up, though standing is currently beyond me."

Firell—David glanced up. Firell was there, part of the crowd behind Sarah—they were spreading out now, finding seats. Firell, and Malcolm beside her; Kit and Tafeek, Na'Feel at Sarah's shoulder.

"Tirk is still attached to several large, complicated machines," Dulann added. "But he had a few words he wished to have passed along to you, which were, as I recall: 'The shok-na has nothing to worry about. I will be ready.'"

"Did he mean—"

"Nope," Sarah said, setting her tray down with a clack. "Shok-na's orders. No talking about that thing you asked us for a week."

"That is what you said," Tafeek agreed from across the table, blinking serenely at David.

"And we'll wait," Na'Feel said, "no matter how silly it is."

"Because you are our shok-na," Firell added.

David stared at each of them in turn, and they looked back at him—patiently, he thought, and felt something in his chest begin to thaw.

"That means we're following your orders even though we don't want to," Kit clarified after a moment, when David said nothing. "Or, I mean, we _do_ want to, even though they're weird and ridiculous."

"Because even weird, ridiculous orders aren't going to change our minds," Malcolm added, elbowing David gently.

David looked down at his tray but didn't see it; it was blurry anyway, he thought distantly, and then laughed at himself, blinked twice and cleared his throat and said, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sarah said, reaching for her tray, and bit into her ulabon with a satisfied air.

"Yes," Dulann agreed.

"Okay," David said, and smiled.

  


**Author's Note:**

> For the ~~extremely bored~~ interested:
> 
> 1) A general note on order: there's absolutely no canonical support for my decisions regarding when these people met each other! The only thing we learn in canon is that David and Dulann have known each other for about three years; there's nothing that implies that Sarah and Dulann were the first to meet, or that Malcolm only met them all for the first time on the _Enfali_. I totally just plain made that shit up.
> 
> 2) _for at least eighty cycles:_ A cycle is the Minbari equivalent of a year, longer than an Earth year by a factor of about 1.3. Out of all the sources I could find regarding Minbari age, no two agreed, so in the end I chose to assume that Lennier's dialogue in 1.17 (in the casino with Londo, describing his studies during his "eleventy-fifth year" and "eleventy-seventh year" in temple) is accurate. As in, verbatim: 115-117 _years_ is 88-89 cycles, and Lennier is at least a little older than that. Lennier is not portrayed as especially old for a Minbari, which leads me to estimate that Minbari might live maybe 300-350 Earth years. So! Tafeek is a little younger than Lennier during his section (and is seen as such by other Minbari), but is still over 100 Earth years old.
> 
> 3) _Adeela and Yoon:_ The planet of Minbar has two moons; presumably they have names, but I couldn't find a canonical source for them, so I made names up instead.
> 
> 4) _nearly three cycles:_ Canonically, Humans are not permitted to become Rangers until _after_ Jeff Sinclair becomes Anla'shok Na (like, the ... first time? The first time from his perspective, not chronologically? Dammit, time travel!), which is in late 2258 at the earliest—and then Marcus Cole appears, already a full Ranger, in 2260, and has supposedly already been serving as a full Ranger for at least a few months. Marcus served in Earthforce and does have a martial background, unlike Tafeek, so it makes sense that he'd be somewhat quicker; but this timeline still suggests that basic Ranger training doesn't usually take more than a single Earth year. (Hence Tafeek's embarrassment.)
> 
> 5) _go through the reassignment process all over again:_ I'm recklessly handwaving how the Rangers work because frankly we don't get told a lot about exactly how crews are assembled! So, in this story, Kit's experiences occur on small and mostly temporary strike teams assigned to deal with particular situations, which afterward can either stick together if they work well or be broken up; actually crewing a Ranger ship is a more long-term commitment, and in that case it's more usual for a shok-na to request their main crew, and for the potential main crew to accept or deny the request (a formality, in most cases, but an important one philosophically: all meaning is stripped from service if that service is coerced).
> 
> 6) _The Human woman who had been doing the talking:_ I didn't tag her because I didn't want anybody reading this expecting a lot of her, but in my head this is 100% an Ivanova cameo. :D
> 
> 7) _a story about the foolishness of trying to turn back a tide:_ This is a reference to the story of [King Cnut and the waves](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_Canute_and_the_waves). It seemed to me like a story Sech Turval would like a lot.
> 
> 8) _the choosing of the Shadak:_ I couldn't find any canonical term for this event! I tried to be as clear as possible, but if your memory of B5 is a little hazy: the Shadak is the ruling body of the Drazi Freehold, and the ritual division into "Green Drazi" and "Purple Drazi", who then fight it out until one side wins, is how a new Shadak is chosen when the previous Shadak term is up. (If you haven't watched 2.03 in a while, here's your excuse.)
> 
> 9) _refining his latent gift:_ Canon isn't terribly clear about Dulann's actual psi ability level—on the one hand, Firell doesn't describe his talent as anything exceptional when she's talking to David in the medbay, but on the other hand, the Council is clearly aware of it and at least shows willing to take his word when it comes to the appearance of David's soul, so it's not exactly nothing. I've hedged my bets, treating Dulann's telepathy as something that _could_ have been developed into a skill strong enough to let him serve as a "professional" telepath (i.e., sponsored service without pay, in groups, the way Minbari telepaths do), but hasn't because he opted to become a Ranger instead.
> 
> Aside from those things, Minbari terms (except the names of the Ranger exercise drills), names you recognize, and details that seem familiar are probably canonical and were checked against the [B5 Wiki on Wikia](http://babylon5.wikia.com). Anything else, I made up. :D


End file.
